Yeah... I got ideas for this. And thus, a second chapter.

This time, Vimes was confident.

Or at least keeping up with the conversation.

Vetinari had given him very clear instructions: do not schedule any appointments after the weekly report that Vimes was required to deliver personally.

He was informed of this at the conclusion of said report.

He might have known.

Well, now there was nothing for it but to follow Vetinari down the same corridor to the same guest room and the same bed.

So far, his brain had only tried to implode twice.

A new record!

At this rate, he might eventually have enough of a tolerance for –

- sex with the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork

- this to be manageable.

Three times.

Vimes would take what he could get.

But this time he was determined to knock that – that bloody patient frown off of the Patrician of Ankh Morpork's face.

Four. Still doing better than last time.

He was even paying enough attention to keep a competent rhythm all by himself.

So Vimes relied on his left arm to stop him from actually resting on top of Vetinari and reached his right hand down.

It took a while to sort out which bits were Vimes and which were Vetinari.

Vimes was slow to acknowledge that a large fraction of the people on the bed was Vimes himself.

But he finally found what he was looking for and gave it a few experimental tugs. It was hard to convince his mind that, despite past experience, Vimes' hand was not on Vimes'… bits, and so it was normal that turning his wrist like so would not usher in the expected personal sensations.

It was with great self-restraint and no small touch of regret that Vimes kept from giving into the urge to pull until he did feel something.

His concentration was broken by Vetinari clearing his through. "What are you doing?" he asked, with barely more curiosity than disinterest.

Vimes choked, even though he should have expected this. "Well, my lord, it is my intention to pleasure you," he admitted with more pomp than he had ever moved himself to muster.

Vetinari blinked. "Why?"

Vimes sighed and let go. "Because I'm an incredibly generous man."

"It isn't necessary."

"Yes, I know," Vimes said.

Vetinari considered this.

Vimes amused himself by varying his pace.

At length, Vetinari asked, "Were you attempting to bring me to orgasm more quickly? I could oblige you, if you are running behind schedule."

Vimes was prepared to tell Vetinari exactly what to do with his schedule – once there was room, of course – and then there was that same tightness as before and Vimes stopped.

"My lord, I swear to whatever gods are laying bets on this that if you just came by sheer force of will –"

He didn't finish the threat. There were probably laws against threatening to do harmful things to a Patrician's twig-and-two-berries.

Then again, there were also laws against the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork – five times – having convenient-sex-by-appointment with a married man whose payroll came under his direct authority.

Vimes had checked.

Granted, the subject had been covered in a broad stroke, but the point had been carried by all of the exclamation marks.

Vetinari said, "Don't delay yourself on my account."

Vimes hung his head, letting his hairline rest on Vetinari's sternum.

The warmth of him startled Vimes. It really shouldn't have, since other areas were still giving him a splendid re-enactment of the inside of a kiln.

There was even a pulse, in the hollow below where Vetinari's ribcage knitted together in a small knurl.

Three seconds passed.

Vetinari asked, "Are you going to finish? If not –"

Vimes demanded suddenly, "You really did, didn't you? You came because you decided to come."

Looking at that pulse, Vimes realized that it was steady.

Be-beat. Be-beat. Be-beat.

Like the pulse of the city.

Not like a person coming down after any sexual activity. Not even like Vimes' own, which was stil in transition from flittering to death.

Death by awkward sex.

He nearly laughed.

Vetinari moved an inch, fully expecting Vimes to allow him up now that he had decided to do so.

Vimes rolled off of him, more frustrated than ever before – and in more senses of the word than one.

Forget the awkward sex, not finishing so often couldn't be helping anything.

Vetinari was getting dressed again, with the same stiff movements and the same distant frown and the same goddamned control over everything.

He said, "It is simply an instance of mind over matter."

Vimes didn't dignify this with a response.

When Vetinari was at the door, he looked over his shoulder to where Vimes lay, petulantly glaring a hole in the ceiling.

"And you needn't address me as 'my lord' under these circumstances. It strikes one as slightly inappropriate, wouldn't you agree?"

That turned petulance into rage, and Vimes shot up to give said rage better footing from which to launch itself into Vetinari's jugular.

But the bastard had already gone.

Vimes flopped back down.

He needed a drink.

It always surprises me how hard it is to write awkward sex without making it overly explicit.

But at least I made an effort...